The well of tears in her eyes was dry. A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably. What about your real mother? Wasn’t she also a foster child? Michelle told me that she was suspected of murder, some people named McFerrin, McDougal. Her pulses began to race.
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